


Hiding in the Light

by Atanih88



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: salt_burn_porn, Kink, M/M, depilation, hurt!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-11
Updated: 2011-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-24 12:50:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atanih88/pseuds/Atanih88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which things aren't as hidden as Dean likes to think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hiding in the Light

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [На виду](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4262961) by [PrettyPenny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyPenny/pseuds/PrettyPenny)



> Written in a mad rush and completely unedited. I'm so sorry for any and all mistakes -_-; I'm pretty tired and after banging my head (and tringic's – I'M SO SORRY!) against a wall trying to interpret the prompt and—and IDEK what this is. Erm. I'm going to bed now -_-; Written for reapertownusa's prompt - hiding in the light over at salt_burn_porn.

The light of the bathroom is lime white, bringing everything into sharp focus. Everything seems more concentrated under it. The smell of new paint and never-lived in space. And his own sweat, his own blood, a taint in the new home.

He doesn't flinch when Sam's hand closes, firm and damp over his knee and pushes gently. "Dean."

Dean tightens his fingers on his right arm. His shoulder is still sore from where Sam had popped it back into place and his right hand lies limp against the edge of the toilet seat, wrist an ugly swollen thing that Dean doesn't particularly want to look at. It'd be nice if he couldn't feel it either.

But then Sam taps two fingers against the inside of his knee and looks up at him from where he's kneeling on the floor. "Dean," he says again.

Dean swallows, jaw clenching and he turns his face away. The floor is cold against the soles of his feet as he widens the space between them.

Sam shuffles closer and Dean shifts, trying to ease back a little more than a little uncomfortable. They've been in each other's space before. But this—Dean doesn't like this. Sam's eyes are a little too calm, touch a little too steady as he thumbs at the skin on the inside of Dean's thigh, careful where the blood has dried and matted the pale hairs there.

The cut is higher up on his thigh and Dean can't help the instinctive tensing when Sam's fingers pick at the edge of his boxers, forces himself not to slap Sam's hand away when Sam tugs it away, pushing it higher up his thigh. He tries not to focus on it even though he thinks his jaw might become permanently locked with the way he's clenching it so hard.

Sam frowns, leans closer and Dean's back presses flat against the tank. There's a nasty scrape over his cheekbone, the beginnings of purple blooming on the skin his neck like a fucked up daisy chain.

They'd gotten off light.

His thumb pressed against Dean's thigh, tugs lightly and Dean feels the sting, the renewal of pain as it pulls on the wound there. But it's too messy to get a good look and spot where it ends and where it begins.

"I don't think it's still bleeding though," Sam says. He pulls back and reaches for the bag at his side, starts going through it and taking things out.

Dean wipes the side of his face on his good shoulder, wincing when even that sends a spike of pain dancing along the length of his other arm. "Just—hurry it up Sam."

He catches the tightening of Sam's jaw, sees the way his eyelashes sweep down and closes his eyes, leans his head back against the sink because he doesn't want to see. He's tempted to tell Sam to get out and go at it himself fucked up hand or no.

They've been like this for weeks, on edge, out of sync. And that's on Dean's shoulders.

He feels his throat tighten up and swallows against it. The bathroom light tries to penetrate the thin skin of his eyelids but Dean refuses to acknowledge it, tries to sink in deeper and see only the ink blots that swim in faded colors against his eyelids.

The sounds of Sam sifting through the contents of the bag fill the bathroom underlined by the thick silence. His arms brush against the inside of Dean's knees as he shifts around, skin warm in the fleeting contact and Dean grits his teeth, tries to shift them just a little further apart so he doesn't have to feel that either. He ignores the pain as his fingers dig deeper into his arm. What's a few more bruises.

Then Sam's getting up and Dean opens his eyes. He watches Sam cross to the sink, a cloth in his hand. He turns on a tap and dips it under the running water, let's it soak in before shutting it off with a twist of his wrist and coming back to his spot on the floor.

"How's your wrist?" Sam asks. This time his hand spreads over Dean's thigh, holds it open. He looks bigger than normal as he kneels there between Dean's legs, shoulders too big for the space Dean can make right then.

"Great," he bites out.

He flinches, just a little when Sam uses the cloth and begins wiping the wound down. Sam's hand tightens on him in a silent warning. The cloth is warm and water squeezes out with each press, leaving little trails of watered down blood. Doesn't bother Sam, he works methodically, cleaning up the area until the cut, crude and long curling outward from the inside of Dean's thigh, becomes visible.

Sam's frowning down at the cut now and pushing his hair from his face. His forehead has a damp sheen of sweat on it and it's lined as Sam tilts his head to look at it properly, shouldering Dean's good leg further back and fitting himself in until Dean's leg is tucked under his arm and pressed to his ribs.

Dean's already lifting a hand to put reset their personal space boundaries when Sam eases back. Sam glances from Dean's hand to Dean's face and turns away, starts digging around again until he comes up with a razor.

"Hair's—" his Adam's apple bobs, he ducks his head and Dean can't see a damn thing, "getting in the way."

The razor's one of those cheap plastic ones but Sam's pulled out a new one. He's holding it pretty steady in his hand. Dean can make out the gleam of the thin blade.

"Dude. You're gonna _shave_ me?"

But the look Sam flicks up at him—narrowed and sharp, the color closer to honeyed vinegar—has Dean's mouth opening and shutting uselessly, before he gives one hard shake of his head and just focuses his stare somewhere over Sam's head on the tiled wall behind him.

"I'm not gonna cut you." The words are said in a tone carefully devoid of emotion. Except Dean knows all of Sam's tones, doesn't have to try hard to hear the veiled note of accusation, and maybe even, a touch of hurt. A tone that says you should always trust _me_.

But Dean just sighs, rubs at his face, fingertips feeling greasy with sweat. "Sam..." He doesn't have any words for this. Doesn't know what to do with this, if he can do anything with this.

Sam nods, short and quick and busies himself by going back over to the sink. This time he takes a cap off of some product with him, fills the small thing with water before dipping the razor under the tap too. His movements are sharp and controlled and when he comes back again, this time there's not much gentleness there. It's almost clinical as he grips Dean's leg, presses in close, hunching over Dean.

"Stay still."

The first rasp of the razor on his skin makes Dean clamp his mouth shut. He's back to staring at the wall over Sam's head wanting to be anywhere but there. It's soft and careful and Dean holds himself still, like Sam told him to, apprehensive as he feels the razor swipe once more, and again. Sam's hand slides higher on his thigh.

Then Sam murmurs, "Dean, a little more." And Dean feels the warmth of the words on his skin. Sam pushes the material of his boxers, stiff with blood to the crease of his thigh and Dean stiffens, uncomfortable when it tugs the material a little tighter against his balls. But he doesn't move as the razor slides again, followed by a swipe of Sam's thumb, this time, the blade a lot slower against his skin.

Dean's shoulders are hunched now, trying to curl in on himself, something instinctive, a protection against the vulnerability the situation hits him with. This kind of thing—it's different even when compared to having a gun pointed at him by his brother. And despite the pain, the warm hand on him, fingers rubbing soft and gentle against his skin it's taking a different toll on him, making something shift uneasily in his belly and he sucks in a deep quiet breath to try to soothe it, calm it down.

Sam pulls the razor away, dips it into the cap he'd filled with water and shakes it around. Then taps the razor against it. And all the while his hand hasn't moved from Dean's thigh, instead just shifting up until the crease of Dean's thigh is tucked up between his thumb and forefinger.

He turns back to the task but instead of lifting the razor again he just sits there, eyes on the smooth skin around the wound now.

Dean's glancing at the top of Sam's head now. He feels the throb of his injuries but it's taken a backseat to this. The air of the bathroom prickles at the damp skin of his neck and Dean wets his lips, thinks he'd rather deal with the sharp, metallic pain.

"Think we can sew it up now," he says, and if his voice comes out a little lower, with the touch of a shake at the end, neither of them acknowledge it.

"You trust me Dean?"

Startled by that Dean looks right at him, finds Sam's eyes, serious and waiting, fixed on him. And at the same time he feels Sam's thumb dip under the bunched line of his boxes and rub against the coarse hair there. And Dean's mouth goes dry as that queasiness in his belly tips over into the hair rising sensation of his dick filling out a little.

Sam seems to understand something from his silence though because he sets the razor aside, straightens and reaches for the waistband of Dean's boxers, tugs and looks up at Dean.

"Lift up."

And Dean isn't sure he's heard right. Except Sam's still tugging on them and he's slipping them down over Dean's hips, thumbs pressing along the length of bone there and fingers digging in against Dean's ass to get him to lift.

"C'mon Dean." And now there's a crease between his eyebrows, Sam's mouth a stubborn line as he stares at Dean and waits for Dean to do as he's asked.

Dean does.

Sam's eyes widen a second before he swallows and glances down at where the boxers are hooked just under Dean's ass, elastic stretched tight over his thighs. He can see the top of his dick. Shit.

Dean leans back again, rubs at his eyes with his hand and leaves it there for good measure because he doesn't know what the fuck he's doing. What the fuck they're doing.

He hears the splash of water, feels Sam shuffling closer again. This time Sam's hand closes on his hip. And when Sam runs the razor of coarse hair, Dean bites into his lip, tries to keep still. He curls his hand into a fist and presses it hard between his eyes, leaves them closed as his stomach sucks in at the slow sweep and rough catch of the little blade on his hair.

Sam's hand sweeps higher, rubs over Dean's abdomen, small circles probably meant to soothe but which are just winding Dean tighter, his muscles going rock hard under Sam's hand instead. And fuck—fuck.

It feels—good. It feels good. And he's hard.

Sam rinses the blade, comes back again and somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean wonders if this shouldn't be done with some kind of foam or something. But then the razor is going lower, the sound it makes, like a velvet scrape against his ears. It's so close—and in his mind's eye he knows how easy it'd be for Sam to just slip, for the blade to just cut through skin and leave a neat line of red and he drops his hand, grabs for Sam's shoulder.

"Sam." His voice sounds like it's been put through a grinder. Sam won't cut him.

"Yeah?" And Sam's voice sounds just as fucked up.

Dean hears him gulp around the word a half a second before the razor stops. Sam's hand is right there, palm flat against the underside of his dick, palming it and pushing it past the elastic so it's pressed flat against the hot skin of Dean's stomach. Dean's mouth falls open and Sam rears up, plastering himself to Dean's chest, mouth opening over his throat and biting down as he fumbles with Dean's waistband and shoves his hand inside.

There's the sound of the razor bouncing off the floor, Sam's hand rubbing steady and hard over Dean's dick. The heel of his hand is grinding against the head of Dean's dick, stopping now and then to rub at his balls, to dip behind them and massage there, making Dean curl tighter around him. Sam's mouth is pressed to his clavicle, a damp press of lips there as he works Dean's dick in his hand.

"Sam. _Fuck_ Sam!" His fingers are buried in Sam's hair, pressed tight to the curve of his skull as he grits against the pain of his thigh and his arm and wrist and lifts his hips into Sam's hand. "God _damn_ —"

Sam pulls his hand up, wraps it around him, fingers all the way around and teases at his slit and Dean's shouting, bucking up off the seat, mouth pressed tight to the top of Sam's head and shuddering there.

When he finally starts hearing again over the sound of his own breaths, over the shivers still running through him, Sam's speaking against his skin. It takes Dean a few seconds to register what he's saying.

"You gotta trust me Dean," Sam pulls his hand away from him, eliciting another shudder from Dean, and wraps both arms around him, still careful of all Dean's wounds, "you gotta trust me."

And Dean let's his hand slip from Sam's head, let's his arm wrap around his shoulders and rests his head against Sam's. His body sags and he gives the smallest of nods.

"I know Sam, I know."


End file.
